KEY POINTS:
The news that Patrick Swayze, he of the swivelling hips, twinkle toes and log lifts, has been diagnosed with cancer is deeply shocking.
It's awful for him and his family, obviously, but the reality of this man's mortality is upsetting in a way that goes far beyond himself and his personal circumstances.
Thankfully the prognosis appears hopeful at this point, but the very thought of Swayze being sick at all is terrifying. The man is a life force personified, this is the person who gave us Dirty Dancing for God's sake. It's just not right.
Nobody Puts Baby in A Corner. For a generation that grew up when dancing was dirty, women were pretty and Ferris took the day off, these words were more than a mere catchphrase, a smart-mouth kiss-off delivered by a sexy hero _ these were the words that captured our imagination, melted our hearts and made us believe in happy endings.
If you've never seen Dirty Dancing, a brief precis of the plot may leave you wondering what all the fuss is about. A smart, sensitive, and therefore plain young girl (really, she's not exactly ugly, but there is the nose) spends her holidays in a summer camp with her parents and her (whorish, hilarious) sister.
Initially doomed to a summer of organised activities and buffet breakfasts, our heroine Frances (Baby) is instead taken on a voyage of self-discovery and discovers true love through the medium of the titular dirty dancing. Her teacher? The sexy, supple, leather jacket-wearing Johnny, aka Swayze. They meet, they dance, and somewhere between two left feet and a perfect meringue, they fall in love.
And yet Dirty Dancing is a film beloved by millions. Millions of girls mostly, it has to be said.
Dancing has always been the easiest way of expediting a love story. Cinderella lost her glass slipper legging it away from the ball. The ball that afforded the handsome prince his only opportunity to get up close and personal with her and thus lose his heart to her forever.
Milan Kundera once wrote that for love to have a chance at succeeding fortuities must flutter down to it like pigeons to a statue. Or the happy couple could simply take to the floor.
Remember how Mr Darcy first meets the lovely Lizzie when she tears strips off him at the local hop? It doesn't take an Austen to know where it's going to from there.
Even the latest contribution to the romantic genre, the resolutely unsentimental Knocked Up, begins with the ill-matched parents-to-be kicking off their unlikely liaison with a drunken boogie on the dance floor.
Of course dancing has always been a metaphor for sex. A vertical rehearsal for the horizontal main event. As animals governed by rhythm we know this instinctively. The meaning of a dance, the carnal point of it, can never be divorced from the spectacle. That's why a dance can be such an erotic or an excruciating thing to watch.
Having game on the dance floor is a good indication of how we're likely to play everywhere else. That's why it was so depressing when Suzanne Paul won Dancing With The Stars last year. What does it say about New Zealand sexuality when a tiny Mancunian with a screech like a parrot has the hottest rumba in the joint?
I shouldn't knock Suzanne. After all, you're either born with rhythm or you're not.
Well that's what I used to believe till I saw Dirty Dancing. Watching Jennifer Grey transform from goofy Baby into sexy, confident Frances was enough to make me kick up my two left feet in joy.
Sure, in the movie, Johnny got the sweet end of the deal, but it was Swayze who taught all of us terrible dancers out there that there's still hope for us all.
There's a whole generation out there who'll never be put in the corner thanks to Johnny and Swayze.
